


Day on the Debris

by baiku (KasMuna)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KasMuna/pseuds/baiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A piece describing a day in Impactor's life. He has his struggles, his responsibilites, his thoughts and his memories.<br/>Pre-SOTW, post-LSOTW. </p><p>Megatron in flashback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day on the Debris

It's a quiet day on Debris. Impactor and Guzzle inactive, waiting for the next mission, Roadbuster going through an almost religious routine.

Inactive is the wrong word.

Guzzle shoots round upon round on target dummies. Guzzle tears through more and more practice bots. 

And Impactor watches, thinking. After Overlord, the very moment he was able to, he had left to save the galaxy once again with Guzzle. They had been a good team, a very efficient one. Both of them worked through Cons in a way that was unnatural to most. Guzzle was out for blood, to cause pain. To get rid of his own. In the newly-recruited Wrecker Impactor could see himself.  
And that’s why he has to quit. Not quit saving the universe, but quit wrecking. He was sick, what he did twisted, and seeing what it all did to Guzzle…

He gets up and walks to the panting behemoth of a 'Minibot'.

“Alright, Guz. That’s enough,” Impactor waves his hand, and walks to the smoking remnants of training equipment. “We really can’t afford to keep you indoors at this rate.”

Guzzle snorts and pats his gun.

_“You’re just **scared** ‘cause I’ve got more firepower than you.”_

Impactor manages to keep himself from retorting and leaves it at that, and for a change, Guzzle doesn’t tease him further. He got most of his steam out already.

When they have so many days with way too much tension going on, these miracles are worth every second.

—

He visits the **Zone of Remembrance**. Like he does every day.

Impactor scoffs at Roadbuster reading to comatose Springer, yet he isn’t any better. No, he's even worse. Roadbuster has hope. At least he refuses to give up, for one reason or other. Maybe he refuses to let go. Impactor doesn’t have that problem. He wants to be set free.

The gravestone creaks the floor as he leans his arms on it. There’s a name.

_**Crest** _ **.**

The Wrecker leader most familiar to Impactor. The one whose death he wasn’t able to stop despite being **right**. **_There_.**  
When they were battling Black Shadow, he thought he was making a difference. At that time, it felt like he was smashing the Phase Sixer to the ground. Like his fist was powered with the hopes of every Autobot that fell before him, and who looked up to him. That’s how he felt for years. That he was a hero.  
Black Shadow kicked his skidplates pretty damn hard back then.

Impactor moves his gaze from one grave to another when he thinks of something else.

Not of Crest’s death, but his own.

—

Impactor pushes himself off the floor with a grunt. The other Wreckers snort and laugh at him when he tells them he’s doing push-ups, with the kind of rack he has.  
And they stop laughing every time he starts. The technique is a bit different from the average-busted mech, but it is effective.

Springer had asked him why he does the exercise, he could do other moves that are more suited for his body. Nah, he’s doing push-ups 'cause he likes them. It’s more strain on his shoulders, but that’s why he doesn’t neglect maintenance. Or didn't. Nowadays the ache in his right shoulder is a reminder.  
Strong parts, strong connections, strong joints, and regular use keeps them flexible, durable, and powerful.

 _Like hell he’s gonna rust_. He’s going to go like a Wrecker does. Guns blazing, spitting in the face of death.

He thinks about death again.

—

His hand reaches for a bottle of high-grade straight after he finishes his cubeful of Energon. He stops it, looks at the bottle, and pulls his hand away.

A sigh.

Hubcap gives a surprised hum to himself. He’s seen Impactor do this plenty of times. When he started on Debris, Impactor’s battles most often ended with his the bottle on his lips, but lately he’s left it alone more often than not. 

Impactor walks to his quarters. The hallways of the base are empty, and the heavy footsteps echo for long. Today they’re heavier than usual, as they are every time he refuses to pick up the bottle.

He grits his teeth. It’s a **victory** , he tells himself.

—

Recharge doesn’t come easy at nights like this.

It would be easy to just slump down on the slab and plug in. Surely that would work. But right now Impactor is sitting at the edge of the berth, staring at the dirty wall opposite of him.

Around him, the hum of the ship as it floats through the void of space. Above him, floors and floors above rests Springer, he makes Impactor think of the battle of G-9 and how he saved Springer's face. Below… 

He shakes his head, and rubs his face. Refreshes his mind, thinking of something else now.

Impactor’s jaw stiffens when he looks around and notices the datapads on his table. He’s been glancing at them on earlier nights, on and off. Should he read now? No. He’d need to be drunk for that scrap. Stupid stories of his “heroic” deeds, of all the things he did and didn’t do. Every other page edited in the striking black and white of Prowl. Lies lies lies LIES.

And the other stuff he sees no point in even keeping anymore. But he does. Out of habit, probably. Thinking about it, he groans. Sentimentality never got things done, that's what he's learned after a few million years of tug-o-war on ideals.

In the end, Impactor did grab a tablet, hooked himself up on the recharge plug and began to read.

—

_“Isn’t that enough already? I can’t keep watching your back– **guard!** ”_

_Megatron quickly swiped his datapad away into the safety of his subspace, his fuel pump thumping, and his optics wide._

_Then he growled and slapped the laughing Impactor._

_“ **Ahhahha** , frag, you should’ve seen your face!” Impactor didn’t care about the slap, he enjoyed teasing the other miner. Flustered Megatron got him his kicks. And he was bored down to his bolts._

_“Impactor,this isn’t a laughing matter, you know what happens if they see me.”_

_“Yeah yeah. C'mon, I’ll keep them away from you. Besides, how long are you going to write? We should get moving, the elevators ain’t gonna wait forever.”_

_“We can go if you let me **finish** in our room.”_

_Impactor groaned long and loud, but gave in._

_“Alright, now let’s get moving.” He wanted his sleep, and the light, in all it’s dazzling glory, kept him from it. That’s why he would 'strongly disagree' with Megatron if he wrote at night. For moments like this though, it was a perfect bargaining chip. He wanted to go, Megatron wanted to write._

_When they were walking to the lift, Megatron tried to say something, but Impactor was too quick to shout for the handler to wait for them to hear it._

_The following night wasn’t as unpleasant as it usually was for Impactor when he decided to sacrifice his sleep, Megatron came to his berth, and read. No, unpleasant was far from it._

—

When his tired optics go over the text, word by word, he recognizes where they had changed place, where there was a break from the handwriting. He remembers Megatron reading the piece out loud when it was done, the same night. He didn’t get it, it was poetry.

The datapad leans against his chest as he falls asleep with the text in hand, the memory of his old friend’s voice fresh in his mind.

And he dreams of simpler times.


End file.
